


Take Off Your Coat, Cap, and Stay Awhile

by 8sword



Category: Captain America (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bunker Fluff, Crossover Pairings, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:12:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2512199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/pseuds/8sword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the kitchen, Steve washes his hands at the sink and grabs a peeler to start helping Dean with vegetables. Dean protests, "Dude, no" and hip-checks him away from the counter. "You're a guest."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Off Your Coat, Cap, and Stay Awhile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nicKnack22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/gifts).



> This is Musey's very belated birthday fic. Happy birthday to an amazing friend and writer!!!!!!!!
> 
> (MUSEY, I TOOK YOU AT FACE VALUE ABOUT BEING WILLING TO READ STEVE/DEAN PORN, SO IF THIS IS INAPPROPRIATE I APOLOGIZE AND WILL WRITE YOU SOMETHING DIFFERENT.
> 
> Either way, I finished my birthday fic for you before orange did, SECOND PLACE WRITES 50K STEVE/DEAN FIC, TAG, ORANGE YOU'RE IT)
> 
> This is set in some unclear S8/S9 AU where Kevin is alive and Sam and Dean are somewhat okay and everything is mostly good and only a little bit angsty, amen.

Steve looks strangely _right_ in the bunker in his pressed khaki pants and tucked-in collared shirt. He turns slowly on the spot in his omnipresent leather jacket, taking in the sigils etched into the bookcases, shaped into the iron sigils of the vents. Dean takes the bag from over his shoulder, tucking it over his own and trying not to look too interested in Steve's reaction.

"Wow," Steve says finally. "This is…"

"Awesome?" Dean suggests.

Steve huffs out a laugh through his nose. "Awesome," he agrees.

Dean rocks back and forth on his feet. "C'mon, let me show you the garage." He hikes Steve's bag over his shoulder again, ducking out of the way when Steve tries to take it back from him, and nearly jogs down the tiled hallway to the tightly curving steps that lead down to the garage. Steve's footsteps click after his, not quite running but close, loud in the silence of the bunker, no one there but them, Sammy gone for the weekend and Kevin off at college and Dean hasn't realized just how silent it's been until there's someone else here, their noises bouncing down the hallways.

"Wow," Steve breathes when they emerge into the huge, three-story-high expanse of the garage, with all its gleaming vehicles in rows on either side of them.

"I mean, it's no helicarrier, but." Dean rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets. "Most of 'em are from the fifties, but there's a '46 Roadster in the corner back there."

"They're beautiful." Steve steps closer to a bright yellow jalopy, smoothing his hand across the curved, gleaming surface. "We used to talk about having a car like this. Me 'n Bucky." He looks up at Dean, and there's something abruptly young in his face, something boyish. Dean feels something similarly wide splitting his own face.

"Maybe you could take it for a spin later."

"Maybe," Steve says, still with that grin. His hand stays on the yellow hood as he looks around, taking in the other cars and, further away, the motorbikes.

Dean snickers at the way his eyes zero in on Dorothy's motorcycle. "Take your time sight-seeing," he says, hiking Steve's bag over his shoulder again. "I'm gonna go start dinner."

It's almost flattering, how easily that tears Steve's eyes from the bikes and back to him. "You cook?"

Dean shrugs. "I can whip some stuff up." His nonchalance is ruined by the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, though.

"The bikes'll wait," Steve declares, and follows him upstairs, close enough on his heels that Dean can feel the heat from him radiating to the back of his legs through the denim of his jeans. He resists the urge to turn around and push him up against the cold cement wall.

 

In the kitchen, Steve washes his hands at the sink and grabs a peeler to start helping Dean with vegetables. Dean protests, "Dude, no" and hip-checks him away from the counter. "You're a _guest_."

"A guest who's very good at peeling," Steve retorts, and returns to his place at the counter. Try as he might, with hip or with hands, Dean doesn’t manage to budge his bulk even an inch, and Steve's laughing hard by the time Dean gives up, his waist damp from Dean's washed hands pushing at him.

"You suck," Dean grumbles.

"Skillfully," Steve says, and flicks a carrot peeling at him. Dean peels it off his cheek, flicking it back at Steve, and ducks Steve's attempt to flick it back by diving for the small stereo set sitting on a shelf next to the kitchen table with its backless benches. The voice that comes from it is Ella Fitzgerald's, but the song she sings isn't familiar to Steve, something from after the ice, and he falls into a reverie listening to it, trapped, as always, by things he missed, the things he lost.

Dean pokes him with a peeled carrot. Steve snaps out of it, looking down at him. Dean raises an eyebrow. It's not sardonic so much as gentle, though: understanding.

"Okay?" he says.

Steve nods. Dean splays a hand across his side, at the small of his back, and strokes across his spine with his warm damp thumb once before pulling away, returning to the cutting board and cut of meat at the counter. He points his knife toward a paper of bag of green beans on the opposite counter surface, and Steve settles his hip against the edge of it to begin snapping them.

 

The kitchen, nice as it was with the music and with Dean, felt a bit like a dungeon with its metal appliances and old tiling, whitewashed walls. The room Dean leads him into next is much nicer, connected to the room with the map-table from before, filled with more bookshelves and yellow lamps whose glows spill like butter across the room. There's two big wooden tables with comfy, cushioned chairs, and Dean sets one steaming plate down on one side of the closer one and the other plate opposite it. He sits down, shaking out his arms like he's a fancy waiter flicking the water from his fingertips, and looks up at Steve expectantly. "Take off your coat, Cap, and stay awhile."  

Steve hadn't even realized he was still wearing his coat. He takes it off, now, and drapes it over the back of his chair. His button-up is long-sleeved, the cuffs neat at his wrists, but Dean's taken off his flannel overshirt to reveal just a gray Henley underneath, and Steve, after a moment of hesitation, unbuttons his cuffs to roll his sleeves up his forearms.

Dean whistles low and loud. Steve turns slightly pink, smiling regardless, and points at Dean quellingly with his fork. Dean just grins more broadly and kicks his feet out under the table to set them on top of Steve's. He's only wearing socks, the thin black kind that comes in packs of six and ten here in the future, and Steve pulls his feet from under Dean's long enough to toe his boots off. Dean's feet help him, both of them leaning forward and snickering as they attempt to negotiate bootlaces with nothing but their clumsy toes and heels, and when Steve's feet are finally free, Dean traps them under his own again, curled his socked toes over Steve's. Steve finds his ears turning red again, and he laughs under his breath at himself, at what a stupid thing it is to blush over when he and Dean have touched so much more than feet.

Dean digs his toes teasingly under Steve's insteps like he can tell what he's thinking. "Food's gettin' cold," he says, innocent-faced. Steve gives him a face just as innocent back, spooning up a mouthful of mashed potatoes as he presses his feet down to trap Dean's toes against the floor.

Then he lets out a moan. "Jesus Christ."

"What?" Dean says in sudden alarm. He sits upright in his chair, feet pulling from underneath Steve's.

"No--the food," Steve says. "Dean, this is--" He remembers how widely Dean grinned when he used the word before, "awesome."

Dean's worried expression becomes a glowing one. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Steve says around another mouthful. Then swallows quickly, neck pinking at his own discourtesy.

Dean smirks at him, clearly understanding where Steve's embarrassment is from. "s okay, Cap," he says. "I like lookin' at your when your mouth's full."

Steve chokes. Dean throws his head back and laughs, and Steve thumps his chest as the sound rings through the bunker, bounces around and crawls back in to nestle inside his chest, warm and glowing.

 

Dean leans back with a cup of coffee as Steve works on his third helping, the hint of a smile turning his mouth up at the edges like light trying to squeeze through closed blinds. When he catches Steve glancing at the kitchen again, consideringly, he kicks him in the shin under the table. "Careful, Captain," he says. "I don't want you too full to move."

Steve blinks. Then he winks. "I was counting on you to do most of the moving, soldier."

 

Despite how warm and easy the rest of the night has been, Dean finds himself holding his breath as they make their way down the hall to his room. Aside from Charlie, he's never shown someone his room before--opened the door and said, "Here it is" and let them look at around at all the things he's chosen to put up, to leave out, and it feels uncomfortably like being naked, like walking through an X-ray detector wondering if he's forgotten a knife somewhere that is going to be noticed, that he's going to be interrogated about and punished for.

Steve stops respectfully on the threshold. He looks a little more rumpled now, one of his shirt tails hanging out and his hair mussed out of its usual neat swoop by throwing his head back in laughter at dinner, and it makes him look a little less intimidating as he stands there in the doorway, taking in the weapons placed carefully along Dean's wall, the military-neat bed, the desk with the dusty typewriter atop it.

Dean stands next to his bed, leaning against the corner of the mattress. Steve says, "May I?" as he steps inside, and Dean nods without knowing what, exactly, he's saying yes to.

Steve walks over to his nightstand, bending to lightly touch the corner of the framed photo there. "This your ma?"

"Yup." Dean comes up behind him. Not quite close enough to touch, but close enough to look at his mom's blonde hair, the tiny crinkles at the corners of her eyes as she smiles at the camera.

"You've got her smile," Steve says. His voice is fond.

Dean gets that brimming-over feeling again, full and warm. He wraps his arms around Steve from behind and hooks his chin over his shoulder.

"What about yours?" he asks. "Your mom."

"Best woman I ever knew," Steve says softly. He turns, and puts his hands on Dean's hips. He lowers his head to rest their brows to one another's, regarding Dean through his blue eyes and dark lashes. "How do you want me?"

Dean closes his eyes for a minute. He kind of doesn't want to move from their current spot, where he can feel Steve's pulse against his, but he also doesn’t want to waste the time they have, in case it gets cut short the way it so often seems to.

He steps back and points at the bed. "On your back."

Steve moves toward it. He starts to unbuckle his belt, but Dean stops him, biting his lip as much out of enthusiasm as shyness. "I get to do that part."

 

Smiling, Steve lies back on the bed. Its scratchy brown blanket reminds him of blankets on the front, but for once it's a memory that doesn't hurt so much as just scratch softly at the back of his neck. His hands come up to sit on Dean's hips again as Dean climbs atop him, sitting back on his knees, against Steve's upraised ones, to begin unbuckling Steve's belt. Steve shifts slightly with the muscles shifting in Dean's hips and scoots back toward the headrest, folding the pillow under his head. It gives him a better angle to watch Dean, the sweep of his eyelashes and the way his bottom lip's pulled under his teeth. He's so engrossed by the view that he doesn't realize Dean's trying to tug his trousers down his hips until Dean pinches his side.

Blushing, he lifts his hips, and Dean drags the khakis down his legs. Then he crawls back onto Steve's hips again and unbuttons Steve's shirt one at a time. When he's done, and Steve's collared shirt and white undershirt have been pulled off, he sits back to admire his work. He sweeps his splayed hands across the planes of Steve's chest and then he pauses. He flashes a wicked glance up at Steve and splays his hand across Steve's left pectoral muscle and squeezes.

Steve flushes. Heat sweeping down his neck and chest even as he makes a face at Dean and pinches Dean's ass through his jeans in return. A laugh bounces out of Dean; he flicks Steve's nipple in retaliation, and Steve thrusts involuntarily, making Dean laugh again and grind back against him. Then, as Steve glares at him half-heartedly, mostly just reproachfully, he leans down apologetically, eyes latched onto Steve's, seals his mouth over the skin around Steve's nipple and sucks.

A groan arches out of Steve. He pushes his fingers through Dean's belt loops to hold him close, pull him closer, pushing up against the hardness in his jeans.

Finally Dean pulls away. His eyes are dark, his mouth too, wet and swollen from the suction, and as Steve watches, he swipes his tongue across his lower lip. When he sees where Steve's looking, he laughs, sly, and Steve renews his hold on his belt loops, giving them a yank. "Is this making love or a comedy show?"

Dean's eyes darken further. For a minute, Steve thinks he's made a mistake, saying _love_. But then Dean's kissing him, and pulling off his own clothes, prying Steve's fingers from his belt loops with more breathless laughter, and then Steve's rolling them, capturing Dean's breath in his mouth and his hands beneath his own.

 

It's different, being together in a real room. No sound of cars or people just outside the window; no trying to keep quiet so that their noises don't bother the people in the next room; no trying to be careful so the headboard doesn't knock against it. And when the time for lube comes and Steve groans, looking at where his duffel with its supply of single-use packets sits on the desk chair all the way across the room, Dean just rolls off of him to the edge of the bed and reaches into the nightstand drawer and pulls out a whole actual dispenser of it. He slaps it into Steve's hand, grin stretched wide with delight and maybe a little bit of bashful pride, and Steve has to kiss him all over again, to crush him to the bed and cradle his head between his hands and suck and stroke until Dean's just grinning up at him dazedly, lips wet and shiny.

"You're glowing," Steve tells him sternly, except the sternness is ruined because he's grinning too, his mouth stretched stupidly wide.

Dean licks his lip, a slow lewd swipe that says he knows exactly what he's doing. "So turn me off," he says, and Steve does, covering Dean with his body and his mouth with his own, there in the sheets that are soft and smell of Dean instead of stiff with industrial-grade detergent.

 

\- - -

 

In the morning, Dean wakes up to an empty bed. Steve's blue shirt is still hanging from his desk chair, though, so Dean pulls it on, not bothering to button it up as he finds some boxers and pushes his feet into a pair of slippers to shuffle into the kitchen, following the smell of bacon and coffee.

"Have you seen my ro--" he begins, only to stop when he sees Steve standing at the oven in his robe with a spatula in his hand.

"It's big enough for two," Steve says, and Dean comes under his arm to be wrapped in the robe, too, wriggling his arm into the sleeve with Steve's until Steve relinquishes the spatula to his bossy hand. Steve pulls his arm free to slide it around Dean's waist instead and tucks his chin over his shoulder to watch him flip the pancake one the bubbles have disappeared from the edges of the batter. Dean leans into him, the curve of his ear cold against Steve's cheek, then turns his head to kiss him.

"You know," he says against Steve's jaw. "If you think my robe is big enough for two, you should see the shower."

Steve reaches around him to turn the stove off.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
